


the blood that i'm owed is all yours

by crookeds



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Patricide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23071792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookeds/pseuds/crookeds
Summary: If the road ahead is little more than a bloody path, staining her feet, then may Hubert be the one who paves it for her.He vows as much, both to Edelgard and himself.He was not born with bloodied hands, but he will die with them. For her.A reflection on the things that Hubert has learned.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	the blood that i'm owed is all yours

**Author's Note:**

> tw for animal death

His father teaches him the meaning of duty.

And the value of a life.

Hubert receives a sparrow in the midst of winter when he is five years old. It is when all he knows is boredom and the stoney gray walls of the Vestra’s estate being cold to the touch. Snow, seemingly borrowed from the north, blankets the outside. His father’s rose garden dies quickly, the tall hedges red burning away under the stark sheets of white. Every window is iced over in a frozen spectacle that eagerly collects the fog of his breath when he presses his nose to the glass and spares a curious glance at the weather.

For days it’s like this—and all Hubert has is the ticking of the clocks spread throughout the mansion and the many borrowed books from their grand library, stacked neatly at his bedside.

Until he’s called to his father’s study one afternoon.

Hubert stands in front of his desk, his palms itching with nervousness as his father stays silent, seemingly unaware of his son’s presence as he continues his work.

But his quill rests eventually, and he looks up slowly, as if to try and remember why he’s asked Hubert to come.

He doesn’t speak when he seems to realize—but Hubert hears the click of his tongue as he looks him over and feels what must be judgement creep up the back of his neck. Still, his father stays otherwise silent as he stands, moving only to the end of his desk and drawing attention to a tall figure draped in thick canvas.

The fabric falls to the floor with the motion of his hand, revealing a gilded cage and a bird that nervously flits back and forth within.

“It is time you learned the traditions of our bloodline, boy,” says the Marquis, and he does not explain any further. “Take care of the bird. Let no harm befall it, or you have failed.”

“Yes, father,” he says, eyes stuck to the cage.

“You may leave. The servants will carry the cage to your room.”

Late at night, when the cage is brought to his room and the house has gone to sleep, he pulls the chair of his desk to the cage and stands on top of it, looking at the sparrow.

She is plain and brown, less nervous than before—but still restless.

Nervous, with his face a stern imitation of his father’s, Hubert reaches forward, a finger outstretched, slipping past the bars and closer to the sparrow. The softness press of his knuckle comes to rest against its feathers, and he fears she may peck at him angrily, or bat her wings against the cage.

But she doesn’t move.

“Hello,” he says, quietly.

Slowly, and barely, he brushes his finger against the sparrow. And just as barely does a smile come to his face.

Winter continues, and Hubert is offered no aide or instruction on the care of the sparrow. So he reads books about birds until his eyes begin to hurt, and asks the raven keeper for advise on how to keep her healthy.

“A sparrow isn’t a raven,” he says, handing Hubert birdseed for the week. “But she’ll be fine as long as you keep her fed, yeah?”

Hubert nods.

“Let her fly one day. Once all the damned ice has melted. It’ll do her good for her wings, and if you’re any good at keeping her, she’ll know to come back.”

His frown doesn’t go unnoticed—and the keeper laughs at Hubert’s soured expression. “She’s a bird.” And as if on cue, a raven disappears from the tower, out the balcony and upward and onward into the sky.

“They all have to fly. We can’t deny them that.”

So spring comes eventually. The snow disappears, replaced with green, and sunlight is ushered through the windows. The roses bloom happily at the behest of the sun, and morning dew no longer freezes over in the early morning.

He carries her in the palms of his hands, close to his chest. He can feel the quick thrum of her heartbeat and the nervousness of his own.

“You have to come back,” he orders, though he’s not sure if she listens. “Father will have both our heads if you do not. Understand?”

Silence. Fair enough.

He sucks in a breath, holding it in his chest before finally opening his hands.

Without a moment of hesitation she takes off—outside the confines of her golden cage and his bedroom, she’s eager to go. Hubert nearly lets out a cry of surprise, and he can only watch the quick and confident flap of her wings. He feels proud, maybe, of the ease at which she flies, but nervous when she disappears out of view, too quick for his eyes to track. He tries to think of the raven keeper—and of the reassurance that she’ll come back.

It feels like a mistake, however, as the minutes pass and she does not return.

He begins to go around the courtyard, not daring to call for her and reveal that he’s lost her. He looks into the sky, in the branches of the trees, and under the shadows cast by his home. Nothing, nothing, nothing—

One of the rose bushes rustles quietly, and Hubert catches the movement in the corner of his eye.

His hands sting as thorns catch his skin, scratching up his wrists and tearing into his sleeves. He finds her there, of course he finds her there, beating furiously against the flowers, tangled within, and Hubert’s heart sinks as he sees her wing rendered useless to the fury of his father’s rose garden.

He tries to shield her as he removes her from the bramble, taking another beating of thorns to his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her, and he means it.

Hubert ushers her back inside, keeping her hidden in his bloody palms.

His father hears of the incident anyways. His eyes and ears are everywhere within his own home, and Hubert feels little to no surprise at his sudden presence in his room.

He feels caught red handed (literally, even), and holds his breath as he watches his father regard him with a long stare.

And there’s nothing he can do as he watches his father take the injured bird in his own hand. More than ever does it look too small, too fragile. Its broken wing does not allow it to struggle, and Hubert feels guilty and nearly just as small.

His father is slow, meticulous—the cage door opens quietly and he takes the bird, almost passing for gentle in how he holds her.

Hubert sucks in a startled breath, eyes slamming shut—but too late. For years the sight of his father breaking the sparrow’s neck will be seared into his memory.

“Failure,” he hears his father say, and he looks up to see him wrapping the bird in a white handkerchief, “—is unacceptable.”

He places her back in the cage.

“Get rid of it,” he says, letting out a long breath. Hubert feels his gaze flicker over him once more.

A beat passes.

“Yes, father.”

Only a few months later he is presented to the emperor’s daughter. 

“Edelgard von Hresvelg,” her name is a matter of pride, and Hubert is quick to kneel with his father. “Ninth child to Emperor Ionis and Princess of the Adrestian Empire.”

“It will be your life’s work to protect her majesty, as it has been mine to protect the Emperor,” says his father. He feels his hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly, uncomfortably. “Such is the honored duty of our house. Her life is now your life, Hubert.”

Hubert looks at her—examines her decorated expression that is far beyond that of any normal four year old girl, but notices still the way that her hands fidget uncomfortably at her front.

He thinks of a bird in its cage, nervously flitting back and forth in view of everyone.

His head bows.

His tenth birthday, Edelgard gifts him a pair of gloves.

Because Hubert would never ask or want for more from her. Because he neglects to inform Edelgard of his birthday (every year—much to her chagrin), and surely the present is a last second accommodation. Even Hubert tends to glaze over the day with little more than a bitter cup of coffee and some mild reflection on his progress throughout the year.

She slides him the box across the table where they share tea in unspoken celebration (the only time Hubert can stomach the taste is in her presence), and he eyes the carefully wrapped box with suspicion.

“Lady Edelgard,” he tries to start, his voice already wary, but she interrupts.

“Hubert, I order you to open the box!” 

He withholds the sigh that builds in his chest.

They are neatly folded, so much so that they look crisp against the velvet lining of the case, and freshly sown—if such a thing is possible. Hubert blinks in surprise, but removes them carefully, pulling them on as Edelgard watches with a smile.

“A tenth birthday is special.”

A perfect fit.

“Thank you, Lady Edelgard,” he says, relenting, smiling slightly himself.

“You’re welcome, Hubert.”

He’s not there the day Edelgard disappears.

He’ll chastise himself for years to come, but him being by her side would have changed little about the situation. He knows that as an objective truth—nobody would have been able to change the events of that day.

Still, Hubert thinks of her: alone, frightened, taken—and his anger is suddenly warm bile hidden underneath his tongue. And at first it’s like being a boy in the courtyard again, afraid to call the name of a bird because he does not want to alert others to what he’s lost. 

But the truth—

He stands in front of his father again, body going rigid as he is given an explanation.

It’s hard to remember the full of his explanation: " _For the better of the empire_ ," he says. _"You need not concern yourself with it, boy."_

And its like his fingers reach into a cage once more, aiming for the neck.

He’d not known loss before, not really, but he feels it come in waves that crash and pull, taking him with it.

Three days later, his father’s soldiers drag him back inside the Vestra estate. They pull him by his arms—upright and dragging against marble, and drop him in a bloody heap at his father’s feet.

“Stupid boy,” his voice bounces off the stone, but Hubert does not react to the sound. 

Only moments later do hooded eyes glare upward, staring at the face of Marquis Vestra with nothing but contempt.

“You need not concern yourself with the fate of that girl any longer. Do you understand me?”

Silence passes, and only silence.

His father makes a noise of disgust and turns on his heel.

Years later when she is returned, unceremoniously put back into place as if nothing has happened, Hubert is back to business—at her side nearly immediately. Of course he notices, as all around the palace seem to do: stark white hair that is both brittle and unnatural with a face gaunt enough to rival his own. 

He can barely stomach to do what no one else will dare to consider and ask her the question that is on all their minds.

But he does, as is his duty. 

Sat quietly at a table for two, they sip tea for the first time since her return.

“Lady Edelgard,” he finally says, breaking the silence. Hubert’s voice is strained, and the grip on the china cup in his hand threatens to snap it in half.

“What did they do to you?”

They lock eyes with one another—and there is something unsaid in the exchange, but reassuring all the same. He watches as she puts her cup down slowly and takes in a breath.

And with her hands folded neatly in her lap, Edelgard tells Hubert everything.

  
If the road ahead is little more than a bloody path, staining her feet, then may Hubert be the one who paves it for her. 

He vows as much, both to Edelgard and himself.

He was not born with bloodied hands, but he will die with them. For her.

His father had once taught him the value of a life, and perhaps he may have been able to teach him the value of duty, too, if he had been a man worthy of even half the integrity Hubert had once thought him to be. But he is self taught in the practice of duty, among other things.

He stands over Count Vestra, who is limp and bleeding over his desk, dying or already dead. He was not allowed to say anything in his final moments, as his son had made sure of that with the cutting of his throat after he had realized his coffee had been poisoned.

Hubert wipes the blood off both his hand and his dagger with his father’s handkerchief, stolen from his pocket, and drops the now bloodied rag over his head. His job finished, he flexes his fingers freely, sheathing the blade after a moment and replacing the stainless white glove back over his hand.

And in this moment of finality between father and son, Hubert is reassured that he knows most of all the value in taking a life.

**Author's Note:**

> just a quick little thing for both the sake of getting it out of my system and roleplay purposes! i love you hubert.


End file.
